


Eight Times

by flyy0ufools



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 23:20:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyy0ufools/pseuds/flyy0ufools
Summary: Eight times Dean almost tells Sam (and one time he does).





	Eight Times

Dean almost told Sam on Sam’s 13th birthday. But as he watched his little brother grin toothily and hug the stuffed animal he had given Sam as a gift, he felt like he’d been slapped, sharp and painful, with the reminder of just how young his brother was.

And, oh yeah. It was his _brother_.

So instead, Dean hugged him tight and whispered, “I’m glad you like it, Sammy. Don’t drop it in the mud.” Sam snorted and pulled away.

“I know how to take care of my stuff, Dean,” he said sassily, turning away and setting the fluffy dog high up on top of the dresser, and the world kept spinning.

Dean almost told Sam two and a half years later, when Sam was 15 and he rushed into their craphole of a temporary apartment, grinning wickedly and excitedly telling Dean that he’d just had his first kiss with Sarah something-or-other. Dean didn’t hear the last name, too busy trying to fake a smile through the clenching in his glut and the rushing in his ears.

But Sam looked so proud of himself, and Dean couldn’t bear to wipe that triumphant smile off his face, so he just reached over and ruffled Sam’s hair and said, “Congrats, Sammy. Looks like one day soon you’ll be a real boy.” Sam punched him in the arm and left the room to change, and the world kept spinning.

Dean almost told Sam when they were standing in the rain right outside a bus stop, and Sam was 18 and leaving Dean. Leaving Dean for California, for Stanford. _Don’t go, Sammy. Stay with me_.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam said, choked up and looking as devastated Dean felt. Dean wanted to ask why, but he already kind of knew that answer. And, well, maybe Sam wasn’t happy right then, but he would be eventually, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to take that away by begging Sam to stay here with him.

“Call me when you get there,” he said, pulling Sam into a short hug.

As he watched the bus—and his brother—disappear into the dark, Dean knew the world kept spinning, but it didn’t really feel like it.

Dean almost told Sam when they were sitting in his car outside Sam’s apartment. The one that held his sleeping girlfriend and his normal life. They’d just finished their first case together in over four years, and everything Dean had managed to push down had coming rushing back almost instantly.

Sam was smiling at him, but his eyes kept flicking away, out to where his apartment was. He didn’t want to be here with Dean, not really. So Dean let him go, told him they made a good team, felt his heart crack at the thought of not seeing Sam for another four years.

Sam slammed the car door shut and walked back to his life, the one he’d built that was free of Dean, and the world kept spinning.

Dean almost told Sam— _so_ damn close, but then Sam was stabbed in the back with a knife. As he kneeled on the ground with his little brother dying in his arms, Dean couldn’t bear to burden Sam with that confession, not if this was the end. So he gripped his brother tight as the world came to a standstill.

Dean almost told Sam a year later, but they were out of time. Again. Because suddenly Lilith was there and the hellhounds were there and Dean couldn’t put together the words to tell Sam in between his screams. Afterwards, he thought the world kept spinning but he couldn’t be certain; he wasn’t there to see it.

Dean almost told Sam, two years later hunched bloody in a cemetery, surrounded by new and old death. But Sam jumped into the pit, saved the whole damn planet. This time, the world didn’t just stop; it imploded.

It was a long time before Dean almost told Sam again. There’d been years of fighting and miscommunication and betrayal, and this time it was Dean’s fault.

“Why’d you do it?” Sam asked, his fury barely concealing the pure pain underneath. Why’d Dean trick him into letting an angel in?

 _Because I love you_ , Dean almost said. But he couldn’t, not then. That’s not what Sam needed to hear, probably not. Sam needed to be angry, and Dean would always give his brother whatever he needed. So instead, he walked.

Dean finally told Sam, two years and a whole mess of new monsters later.

“I killed myself,” he blurted out, two hours’ worth of silence into the trip back home. Sam cracked an eye open but stayed leaning half-asleep against the window.

“Huh?”

“When I thought you were dead. I didn’t know you weren’t, not until I killed myself so that I could beg Billie to bring you back. She was the one who told me that you weren’t dead.”

And that got Sam’s attention.

“Wait—what the fuck, Dean? You… _what_?” Sam’s voice was getting increasingly higher, as if Dean sitting in the seat beside him wasn’t real, as if he had somehow accomplished his suicide mission and his current form was some kind of fever dream mirage. Dean sighed, not sure what had spurred his confession. Now, of all times…

“I overdosed, figured I had a chance of being brought back by the doctor just in case, you know, things actually worked out.”

“Dean, stop the fucking car.”

Dean’s foot itched to press against the gas pedal harder; Sam wouldn’t try to kill him when they were barreling down the highway at 85 miles an hour. But he slid his foot to the brake and eased off onto the side of the empty two-lane road, preparing himself for the impending shit storm.

Sam grabbed him roughly by his jacket and dragged him across the bench seat until Dean’s torso was pressed up against Sam’s and his hips were twisted, straining, his legs bent at an awkward angle because they were still half-caught beneath the wheel.

“Wha—”

“ _Why_?! Why the ever loving fuck would you do that?” Sam demanded, his fingers twitching and trembling and pressing bruises into Dean’s sides.

“Because, Sammy, I love you.”

“I know that, Dean.” There was exasperation in Sam’s voice, and Dean knew he wasn’t getting it. But _finally_ Dean was saying it, and he had to make sure Sam understood.

“No, Sam. _I love you_.”

The body beside him stilled, and Dean held his breath.

“God, you’re such a fucking moron,” Sam finally muttered, and before Dean could ask what the hell that was supposed to mean, warm, slightly-chapped lips were pressing hard against his mouth. “You could have told me that before now,” Sam whispered, breath hot against his skin.

“Apparently so could‘ve you,” was the only thing Dean managed to get out before Sam kissed him again.

The windows in the Impala were steamed up that night, and afterwards Dean drew the words ‘I love you’ into the condensation to piss Sam off, but even more so to make Sam happy.

And maybe also so that Dean could finally see those words for himself. After all, he’d held them in for way too long.

**Author's Note:**

> Read it on my tumblr: [one-soul-two-brothers](https://one-soul-two-brothers.tumblr.com/post/166035222606/eight-times).


End file.
